Freya sat numbly through dinner, longing for the tables to be cleared back so she would be free to find her Norman lord, however fleetingly. Even when the meal was over, though, William kept his men close. She saw the frustration in Heriot’s eyes and knew it to be mirrored in her own. She no longer cared about political tangles, about gossip or plots; she cared only about getting close to Heriot. If he was not released soon he might as well be over the damned Narrow Sea already. She had to do something.
Her hand went to the cross at her neck. She had treasured it so long as a token of her mother’s but she might treasure it even more if it were hung against a special heart. Fingers fumbling, she untied the soft leather thong that held it and, clutching it tight in her palm, began to make her way through the raucous crowds towards the shallow dais. Her feet faltered as she drew close but she refused to let them stop and made her way up to the duke. He raised his dark eyes curiously and she curtseyed low.
‘I wish to thank you, lord duke,’ Freya said as clearly as she dared. She could feel Heriot’s eyes upon her and it gave her strength. ‘You were most gracious this afternoon in sending your guard to escort me home. Your court must be a truly chivalrous place.’
Duke William smiled, preened a little; she’d hit the mark.
‘God smiles on politeness, my lady,’ he said. ‘I pride myself on my manners and those of my men.’
‘They are impeccable, my lord. An example to us all, and in recognition of that I wondered if I might be permitted to present this cross to Count Heriot as a token of appreciation?’
‘How thoughtful.’ William considered for a heart-stoppingly long moment then suddenly beckoned Heriot forward. Freya’s heart raced back into life. ‘This lady has a gift for you, Count – you are rich indeed today.’
‘I am, my lord, as much in the honour of escorting her to safety as in the receiving of Our Lord’s cross.’
William clapped his hands once, a strangely childish gesture; he was enjoying the show.
‘Please.’
William gestured Heriot forward and the knight stepped down from the dais to kneel before Freya. The nearest courtiers had noticed now and were nudging and pointing; soon the whole of Westminster’s great hall would be looking their way. Hastily Freya tied the cord around Heriot’s neck. She could feel his breath upon her throat as she leaned in and awareness of him flooded into every fibre of her body.
‘Freya.’ He whispered her name, sweet and low, then lifted his hand for her to raise him. The moment was almost over, though her hand felt welded to his and she knew it would be agony to pull it away. He stooped to kiss her fingers and glanced up at her from under dark lashes. ‘I love you.’
He was upright again and bowing to the duke before she could fully register what he had said and now Emeline was stepping forward from her place at the duchess’ side.
‘A Christmas kiss!’ Emeline urged and Freya longed to oblige but she noticed Duke William frown at the mistletoe Emeline had gleefully rescued from where Heriot had dropped it in his haste to come forward.
‘A pagan custom,’ Freya said hastily and was rewarded with a nod of approval from the duke.
‘Exactly. Really, Emeline; you could learn a little decorum from these fine Englishwomen.’
Freya’s eyes met Emeline’s and for a moment the two were joined in shared amusement before the French girl, wisely, backed away. King Edward rose.
‘Minstrels!’ he commanded and the courtiers clapped. ‘Perhaps, Count Heriot,’ he went on, ‘as boar-killer and lady-saver, you could lead the first reel?’
He glanced to Duke William, who nodded grave assent, and suddenly Freya and Heriot were free. They moved away from the dais to the cleared dancing area and, as other couples swiftly joined them, they were shaded from their rulers.
‘You were so brave,’ Heriot said admiringly, touching his cross.
‘You have made me so.’
‘I will treasure this gift and you must have my cup in return.’
‘Your golden cup? No, Heriot, I couldn’t.’
‘I want you to and to use it every day besides. It will warm my heart to think of your lips upon it.’
She sighed. The minstrels were warming up and they must dance.
‘Will we ever see each other again?’ Freya asked him.
‘Oh yes. Yes, I believe we will.’
He smiled suddenly and as the first bright notes sounded out, he spun her into his arms.
‘How?’ she gasped, following his steps.
‘Duke William and the king have been talking.’
‘I know. For ages.’
‘Yes, but Freya, it was worth it. They have agreed . . .’ He glanced around but all were focusing on the steps he was marking out and not on his conversation. ‘They have agreed that should Edward die without issue he will nominate Duke William as his heir.’
‘No!’
Yet it had a ring of truth; that was why William had braved the Narrow Sea in midwinter, why the archbishop had been prowling around and why the duke’s mood was so bright this evening.
‘’Tis true, my sweet,’ Heriot confirmed. ‘And with the king’s wife in a nunnery it does not seem likely she will bear him a child, does it?’
‘But . . .’ Freya battled to grasp what he was saying and lost her footing. He pulled her close as they moved down the set and let the next couple lead. ‘The crown is not Edward’s to promise. In England, Heriot, a man must be elected to the throne by the royal council and the lords will never sanction a Norman.’
‘They will if there is no one else. We are, remember, “kind neighbours” and William and Edward are cousins, albeit distant. Besides, once the duke has his eye on a prize, little can block his way. Already he has arranged for Edward to send hostages back with us as a token of faith.’
‘Hostages?’
Freya glanced around the dancers, alarmed. She should warn Wilf to keep out of sight; she did not want him sent over the Narrow Sea with the bastard duke.
‘They are chosen already,’ Heriot assured her. ‘Two noble youths – Godwinsons?’
Freya almost laughed at that. If Edward was sending the two youngest of the exiled earl’s family – boys he was keen to be rid of anyway – it was hardly a guarantee of anything, but Heriot was pulling her close and what he was saying was so tantalizing she dared not speak against it.
‘Don’t you see, my sweet,’ he murmured in her ear, ‘if it happens, if William becomes King of England, he will reward his faithful knights with lands. I could be a lord not of Brittany or Maine but of some English estate and you . . .’
‘Will be married,’ Freya finished dully.
‘Widowed perhaps,’ he suggested lightly. ‘The king is not so old yet.’
Freya’s eyes widened.
‘But you will have wed by then?’
‘I will not. I told you – I will wait for you. I will wait until William is King of England.’
‘You will be waiting too long then. Such promises are made between rulers all the time. It will never happen.’
He spun her again, so fast she fell in against him and he was able to clutch her tight to his chest.
‘You are probably right but it might happen, my love, and we can, at least, live in hope. Now – how fast can you dance?’
She looked up at him, puzzled.
‘How fast?’
‘There is a danger, you see, that in the vigours of the jig I might spin you right out of the hall . . .’
Heriot indicated the door to the big central entrance which stood a little ajar, the dark night beckoning tantalisingly through the gap.
‘A real danger,’ Freya agreed softly and tightened her grasp as their feet, in step, picked up pace.
Let the future be what it must. For now, Christ’s star shone yet a little while and together they could mark out their place beneath it.
EPILOGUE
Freya rode out of London the day after the Twelfth Night feast of epiphany, the weak New Year
sun sparkling in her moist eyes. She was not sorry to be leaving. Westminster was a glorious place but the constant company of jostling courtiers was wearing after a time, especially when it no longer included the man who had lit up her Yuletide.
The Normans had ridden south early on the morning of the twenty-seventh, the duke in fine voice at the front and his men, most looking a little more dishevelled than usual, at his back. Wilf, who had been even later back to their pavilion than Freya, had waved forlornly to the sparkling Emeline but had, just a few hours later, let himself be consoled by the company of a sweet young lady, second daughter to the Earl of Shrewsbury. Now as they rode west he was badgering Galan to talk with her father about a possible match and Freya hoped it worked. She liked the girl and she would be a good friend to have nearby once she herself was in Lord Osbern’s house.
Freya pointed her pony resolutely west. The young bay lifted her muzzle as if, perhaps, scenting home and she urged it into a canter. She was ready now. God had granted her a Yule of unimaginable sweetness and she would thank Him by doing her duty to her father and to her betrothed. She reached back, feeling for the golden cup in her saddle bag.
‘It was a prize, perhaps,’ Galan had suggested, so softly she hadn’t at first thought she’d heard him aright, ‘for a game at court?’
Drawing in a deep breath she had nodded, touched at his quiet understanding.
‘A game,’ she’d agreed.
It had been so much more than that, of course, but that was for her and Heriot alone to know. Laurent, thanks to a good word from Emeline to the duchess, had secured the post as Ralf’s envoy to the Norman court and Alodie had gleefully told Freya, with much nudging, that he would be able to carry letters to Normandy. Freya would not write – it would not be fair on Osbern – but it was good to know that a message could get to Heriot should her circumstances ever change.
As for Duke William becoming King of England – it was a foolish notion, a ridiculous dream, for no Englishman would accept a Norman on the throne. For her dear country she was horrified at the thought of it, but she had to admit that as a woman the possibility, however tiny, was just enough to sustain her aching heart.
‘It has been a happy Yuletide,’ Galan said, riding up at her side.
‘Very happy,’ Freya agreed. ‘It is good to see you in such fine spirits, Father.’
‘And you, my dear. You are ready, now, to wed?’
His eyes swum with concern, with love, and slowing her pony she put out a hand to his arm. London was gone from sight and it was time to look to new horizons but now she could do so with strength and even a quiet joy.
‘I am ready, Father.’
ANGLO-SAXON
CHRISTMAS TRADITIONS
One of the things so many people love best about Christmas is the sense of tradition – the feeling of reaching back hundreds, or even thousands, of years into our past and doing all the things that our ancestors did before us at this most special of times. When researching Anglo-Saxon Christmas, therefore, I was delighted to find that much of what we consider to be ‘Christmassy’ they did too.
Christmas Trees
It is widely held that Prince Albert, Queen Victoria’s German husband, brought Christmas trees to England. Not so. What he actually did was to bring them back to England. Many of our Christmas traditions, like our Easter ones, are actually rooted in earlier pagan festivals. The first leaders of the church had the sense to time their new Christian festivals with age-old pagan ones to maintain an illusion of continuity for nervous worshippers and, as pagan rites were very rooted in the natural landscape, they liked to bring greenery inside to represent life and fertility.
The Christmas tree was usually, as now, a fir tree – a practical choice, being tall and evergreen. The tradition of bringing it into the great hall at Christ’s Mass was from the fir-strewn Norse lands and may have come to us with the first Angle and Saxon settlers. Somewhere along the line this tradition was lost in England (perhaps thanks to the Puritans who were suspicious of all decoration) but as it remained in Germany, Prince Albert knew about it and was able to re-introduce it during Victoria’s reign.
The tree was decorated with fruit (usually apples), pastries, biscuits, ribbons and baubles – much as, in summertime, the same were hung from live trees in the meadows at the celebrations of May Day and the summer solstice. The pastries and biscuits were cut, as today’s decorations often are, in the shapes of angels, hearts, stars, flowers and bells. It also seems likely that gifts could have been placed beneath the tree, so Anglo-Saxon children would have experienced much the same early-morning excitement as ours do today.
Mistletoe, Holly and Ivy
The pretty word ‘mistletoe’ is actually derived from the rather un-poetic Anglo-Saxon meaning: dung-on-a-twig! Pagans, especially Druids, saw mistletoe as a powerful plant, as they believed that it sprang from dung (in fact it was the seeds embedded in the dung that carried the new life). As such, it was a symbol of fertility, and so led naturally to kissing. The practice, as in this story, was for a berry to be removed every time a kiss was procured until the branch was bare.
The early church tried to discourage this wanton practice and persuaded people to bring holly in instead, as the prickly leaves could be seen as a symbol of Christ’s thorns, with the berries as his blood. They were partly successful, as people did embrace the use of holly, but they also held on to the mistletoe, so both became traditional.
Ivy seems to have been used more often as a decoration outside the hall, perhaps around the door, for there was some superstition about its ability to cling to things and therefore suck the soul out of people. An abundant plant, however, it may well have been brought inside too. As with mistletoe, the church discouraged its use but this was almost certainly ignored by those, like us, cleaving to continuity and tradition for their Yule/Christ’s Mass celebrations.
One plant that does seem to have lost its Christmas significance over the years is rosemary. This was an important festive herb to the Anglo-Saxons as it was the symbol of remembrance, friendship and fidelity – all important qualities to celebrate at Christmas. It was also important at funerals and weddings, and was spread on the floor amongst the rushes (dried grass laid across the wooden or earthen floors as an early carpet) to make the room smell sweet.
Wassail
The term wassail comes from the Old Norse ves heil, or Old English was hál – ‘be you healthy’. It was probably an everyday greeting at first, but at some point it developed a reply, ‘drink hail’, and became linked to celebration – the earliest form of ‘cheers!’ The salutation also gave its name to a Twelfth Night ritual in the cider-producing counties in the south-west, in which the health of the apple trees was drunk to ensure they thrived for the following year’s harvest. (A further, bigger festival was also held at harvest time with a Wassail King and Queen, much like a May Queen.) Over time, the wassail cup became part of the general Yule traditions around England.
Wassail as a drink seems to have been made, as would be expected, in a variety of ways depending on local custom and the skill of the brewer. At its simplest, it was most likely a base of mead (honey ale) into which crab apples were dropped. These burst during fermentation, releasing their flavour into the drink, and the resultant pulp is what gave wassail its nickname of ‘lamb’s wool’.
Mulled Wine
It was fairly common practice to heat drinks during the winter, quite simply as a way of keeping the cold at bay. Ale, cider or wine could all be heated either in a pot over the fire or by the very simple expedient of thrusting a hot iron poker into your mug. Indeed, the German term Glühwein translates as ‘glow-wine’, from the glowing hot irons used thus.
Wine, which was largely imported (although, as the climate was warmer then, there are records of vineyards as far north as Ely), would mainly have been drunk by nobles. It seems that spices and fruit were added during the twelve days of the Christ’s Mass feast for an even more luxurious drink. Home-grown fruit
would have included sloes, cherries, plums, apples and raisins. Spices would have been imported from Constantinople. Vikings, in particular, travelled there every summer down the hugely long Dnieper River via Kiev, and enterprising merchants would certainly have made it up the Thames to the rich and rapidly expanding markets of London. Such spices would have been rare and costly in England but there is some evidence that cinnamon, cloves, ginger and mace were all known and if they were to be found anywhere, it would have been in the royal court.
Twelve Days of Christmas
These twelve midwinter days (usually 25 December to 5 January) were officially designated as a period of feasting and celebration for Christ’s birth by the Council of Tours in 567 in order to effectively take over from the pagan festival of Yule. They were very much established as a core Christian holiday by King Alfred’s time in the late 800s. The actual, official day of ‘Cristes Maesse’ on 25 December isn’t recorded until the 1030s, so it was still a fairly recent idea in 1051. The reason for the choice isn’t known, but it may have been stolen from pagan Mithraism in which the regenerating sun-god was annually reborn on that date. It would have been easy to adapt this to the idea of Christ, light of the world, and slide early Christians into these new beliefs.
In Anglo-Saxon times, the days were marked out by the ‘canonical hours’ at which the monks said mass. These were rigidly set (although it’s hard to know what the exact equivalents would be in modern timing) as follows:
Matins
Midnight
(also called Vigils or Nocturns)
Lauds
Dawn, or approx 3 a.m.
Prime (the First Hour)
Approx 6 a.m.
Terce (the Third Hour)
Approx 9 a.m.
Sext (the Sixth Hour)
Midday
The Christmas Court Page 8